What Could Have Been
by Phantom Ou
Summary: An original take on the history of Grell Sutcliff as a human. Very much inspired by a tragic quote/anecdote found on the Web. One-shot.


**_What Could Have Been_ - One-shot**

**As suggested by Beryl Bloodstone, whose story I've been anxiously anticipating, I've created a one-shot for our all-time favorite Shinigami: Grell Sutcliff. This is an insight on Grell's past as a human, majorly inspired by a tragic quote that I have read somewhere (so if you find something familiar, you have probably read the what-was-categorized-under-quotes-but-should-be-an-anecdote before). I really wanted to create a story based off of that quote/anecdote to express how much it moved me.**

**According to my own set of logic, I believe that Grell acted a lot different when he was a human, and thus, I have provided a separate personality for him. So in case of any complaints of OOCness, it was intentional. Unfortunately, I doubt my take on his history is any good—and I sincerely apologize if you find this rather terrible, Beryl. Anyway, this was basically a new challenge for me because Grell has never been elaborated on a personal level before on the series. I cross my fingers that this will be OK and enjoyable, at the very least.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji.**

* * *

In both the vast heavens suspended in the sky and the human-trodden earth from below, the name Grell Sutcliff has passed the lips of an individual on more than one occasion. He is an adept Shinigami known for his grand and excessive flamboyance. Perpetually plastered in scarlet, his fangs for teeth come to piercing points, relatively forming small, upside-down triangles. His eyes are a pair of striking neon-green orbs that glow eerily whenever darkness devours his slender frame.

This peculiar, almost comical, being is infamous in numerous places. Anyone, if questioned, would describe him as 'strange', 'grotesque', or 'exceedingly expressive of one's own desires'. Yes, many if not all would deem that queerness is interlaced into his nature; there is no helping it.

But if one is to interrogate about the history of Grell Sutcliff, well then, those inquired would be at a lost for words. Some may be impertinent enough to question the existence of this ostentatious Shinigami's background.

Now, that would be utterly preposterous. Of course even this individual with an ardency for the color red has a history. It simply has never been relayed because this particular Shinigami prefers for it to be secluded from the knowledge of others. He would progress through each tedious day, fulfilling his requirements and duties, and omit thinking about his past as a human.

But, seeing the name of that person written on the death list spirals him to a state of reminiscence. And thus, a flashback races through his mind, spilling all of its contents; in which this conduct bears a startling resemblance to a cinematic record.

* * *

I was merely an insignificant apprentice to my father, who was a farmer. My mother had left us both for the city since I was just a wee little peck. Hence, no matter how long I foraged through my memories for her features, all that could be managed was the blurry, inscrutable image of a woman. I brushed this off, though, since it was inconsequential who she was. All that mattered was that there was still my father by my side.

Each day, my father and I would tend to the crops and try to accumulate a sufficient amount of money after selling them off at the market to survive the frigid winters. Sometimes, not all the crops would successfully grow past stems. My father would be enraged and pin the fault on my carelessness. Whenever he was inebriated by alcohol, he would welt a few smacks of his painful belt against my skin.

Then the next morning he would sober up and cry while holding me and apologizing. He would cry for the fact that he could not afford a proper education for me, and he would cry about how his wife had deserted us both. Usually, I would also weep, but other times my attention was locked upon the wounds against my pale complexion. The deadly red scars had imprinted themselves on my skin, and the sight was enthralling. The intricate slices, delicately peeling away at the initial layer of my skin, had burrowed a place to reside on.

Years elapsed without much of a difference in this trite process. Everyday would be the same, and the sole and only person that was within my proximity was my father so I see him for every hour of my life. I supposed it had also drove him slightly mad. At times, he would incoherently narrate his actions under his breath to relieve boredom, and he would situate before a window and stare listlessly for hours. Even as a kid, I could tell that my vapid father lacked capacity in eagerness and hope toward life; it was as though the reason he had trudged through life was for my sake.

I was, too, bored by this hackneyed way of living. I wanted something new and exciting. I had heard fantastical stories from my father that if you wished upon a star with all of your might, you would be granted a wish.

And I wished for something that would change my life forever.

I was granted that wish.

One day I was blessed when a family in search for a quiet and cloistered life settled into the desolate house next door to us. I was eleven at that time, and as inquisitive as I was, I went over to steal a glimpse of our neighbors. My father would have reprimanded me for slacking off, but my curiosity could not be quelled unless I followed my bidding.

The married couple was busy repairing the roof and implementing renovations for the rest of the dilapidated building. While concealed behind a huge tree, I looked onwards as a little girl trailed outside of that house. She was very pretty with beautiful, flowing red hair, unlike my insipid shade of black that was the result of an unfortunate acquisition of genes from my father. The girl crouched down to pluck flowers from her garden, and she weaved the stems together in interconnected knots to form floral accessories for herself, such as a bracelet.

She appeared to have felt a gaze boring into her, and she glanced toward my direction. Flustered, I hastily shrunk against the bark, praying that it was dense and large enough to cover me.

In spite of my efforts, I heard the girl giggled, and she approached the tree. I was mortified at the thought of being caught and attempted to evade her, but she pursued closely, in which led to us walking around the tree in circles. While I was winding around the tree, my attention was fixed behind me in expectation for her to be there. However she was clever to have stayed in spot, and so I bumped into her.

The girl did not tease me, though. In fact, she seemed thrilled to have found someone close to her age. I had never really interacted with another person before, much less a girl, and I yearned to retreat.

But before I could, she extended her hand in an amicable gesture.

"The name's Sheila Smith," was what she said.

I did not know then that that one simple name would forever be engraved into my mind.

I was compelled to introduce myself as well and stuttered out a barely audible 'Grell Sutcliff'. She laughed, and for a dreadful moment, I assumed she was ridiculing my name. But in contrary to my belief, she complimented how unique it sounded.

Her parents came to us, having noticed their daughter conversing with an unfamiliar individual. After a brief inspection, they greeted me with kind and gracious smiles. Her mother had benignly gripped my shoulder, asking if 'Sheila's friend' would like to have some cookies.

A strange, fluttery feeling had grasped me then, sending ripples of warmth to tingle my whole body.

I had a friend.

From then on, we spent countless of weeks together. She would show me plentiful of fun activities, such as 'Tag' where it entailed you to chase one another. She told me her favorite was 'Hide-N-Seek' because it was so easy to discover my hiding spot, in which resulted to her string of victories.

At the age of twelve, I found out that I liked her. She made my heart beat so fast when I was with her. I felt extremely happy around her. But, I couldn't find the courage to tell her. At school, I would stare longingly at her back, and how she would offhandedly brush stray, red fringes from her face to tuck behind her ear. I hardly paid attention in class, in which led to severe punishments. Nevertheless, a wide and silly grin was slapped upon my face whenever she waited for me to walk with her back home.

At the age of thirteen, one night, I discovered her propped on top of her roof. She was scribbling into a small and shoddy journal, her eyebrows furrowed as if she was in the midst of a deep contemplation. I sat next to her and asked what she was doing. Sheila flinched and retracted from me in surprise. Then, she sneakily shut her book to obstruct the feast of meddlesome eyes on its pages, and told me that it was her secret diary. Although I was curious, I did not pry. Instead we both laid down on the roof and peered into the entrancing night sky that was riveted with stars. I told her that I had made a wish on one of the stars, and it came true, and urged her to do the same. She clasped her hands together and prayed, and I couldn't help but admire how resplendent she looked while caressed by the night.

I wanted to tell her how fast she made my heart race when I was with her, and how happy and blessed I felt. But, I couldn't find the courage to tell her.

We laid there silently, just listening to the steady, incessant rhythm of each other breathing. I was content by merely being with her like this. When it had gotten considerably late, I stood up and went home without uttering a word; feeling as though this was the best conversation that we had ever had.

At the age of fourteen, it was as if we had transitioned from our childhood. We stopped playing all of the activities like we used to as children. She had to focus on her studies, and I had to work hard on farming. At times while I was weeding out the fields, I would catch a glimpse of her waving at me from her window. My heart accelerated at the sight, and I lifted my hand in a timid wave. Occasionally, she would walk by and toss me an apple of the purest shade of red. She would grin and tell me that I was her 'best friend'.

When we were fifteen, her father passed away due to a rare illness. Sheila had broken down into tears, and she came to me for consolation. I stayed with her for the entire lugubrious night. Then, it was over all too soon, and the sun peeked out from behind the valleys. Sheila thanked me and told me that I was her 'best friend'. Being near her and smelling her enticing perfume, and perceiving how the crystalline tears adorned her long eyelashes, I desired to disclose my feelings. I wanted to tell her how she impelled my heart to race when I was with her. I wanted to tell her how happy she made me feel.

But, I could not find the courage.

Then at the age of sixteen, Sheila found another guy. She told me that he made her happy. Pain throttled me then, and I was desperate. My voice, entrapped behind clenched teeth, wanted to tell her that she was the girl that made my heart expedite to the point that I could not breathe, and that I felt blessed around her. But, I knew that she did not see me any more than 'Grell Sutcliff, a friend'. So, I swallowed down the impulse, and wished her the best. As long as she was happy, that was all that mattered in the world.

At the age of seventeen, I observed on a pew as she ascended the steps, dressed in a spectacular white gown. Her exquisite red hair cascaded down her back stunningly, now and then swaying to and fro as she maneuvered. I watched as she said 'I do', and she shared a kiss with the man that she loved. Before she was about to forge a bright future with her husband, Sheila went to me jubilantly, cheering about how I had come to her wedding. She told me that she was glad her 'best friend' was there.

I wanted to tell her that I wanted to be much more than friends, but I could not find the right words. And I knew she did not see me like that.

A few years later, she gave birth to her lover's child. I saw how the baby was drenched in a pool of pulchritudinous red, and I could not rip my eyes from the magnificent child that seemed so vulnerable, feeble and frail. Birth was an awe-inspiring concept. How was life bestowed to such a tiny thing? It utterly mesmerized me.

Sheila told me that I could be the baby's godfather, and she named it Victoria. I felt my throat go parched. I wanted to tell her that the baby looked just like her; beautiful and lovely.

But, I never did.

We went our separate ways after this. I took over my father's arduous job as a farmer since he had deteriorated in health to the degree where manual labor was unendurable. Sheila, her husband, and her child Victoria departed far from here to find a living elsewhere. I did not even know where my 'best friend' had gone. I wanted to tell her goodbye at least, but her final wave to me left a tangible distance between us. A distance of unspoken words.

I would sit alone in the swing set we had made together, which was attached to the huge tree where we had first met. There was no longer a person to push me from behind to propel me into the air. It hit me then that I had truly lost her. I had lost the only girl that I had ever loved.

Eight years passed. I was standing before the coffin of my 'best friend'. At the memorial service, they read an entry in her diary that I had forgotten about. It was written during her years as a young teenager:

"I had made a wish upon the stars. I wished that we could be more than just friends, even though I know that he does not see me like that. I wanted to tell him how fast he made my heart beat. I wanted to tell him how happy I felt around him. But, I can never find the courage to do so."

* * *

Grell descends to Earth, his hand tightly gripping the death list. He travels to where the designated location is and waits for the fateful time. For a long time now, he has disconnected from the feeling of anxiety, but it has returned, pumping his heart with its cold, relentless fist.

The inevitable cannot be avoided. He is a Shinigami, and he is to stay neutral even if he does not wish to.

And that is why he simply watches as a woman rushes impetuously across a street. In less than a second, a tumultuous carriage runs her over. The beautiful color of red splatters in every direction like shattered glass fragments. It glistens under the luminous moonlight.

Slowly, Grell whips out his death scythe and advances toward the devastated body. With one swipe, he slices her soul, and immediately after, a cinematic record manifests.

It hurts to look at it. It hurts to gaze and listen to this particular record. It demonstrates as the woman transitions through her stages of life; birth, toddler, girl, teenager, and then adult.

"Mama! Mama!" the girl cries as she stumbles her first steps into Sheila's arms.

Grell dismisses the record with a wave of his hand. He collects the woman's soul and crosses out the name of his goddaughter off the death list. Glancing up at the dismal blanket of stars, he realizes that its complexity and intricate pattern have not changed. And neither did he.

The red Shinigami walks down the road alone, forever plagued with the thoughts of what could have been.


End file.
